Truer than angelcare
by kelpi
Summary: After Raoul and Christine leave the dungeon, Erik leads the police away from his lair. As he is about to be captured, he receives an unexpected assistance from a peculiar stranger, who in turn needs Erik's help to get reconcile with her past... My first p
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer# 1: I do not own anybody except Genevieve _

_Disclaimer# 2: English is not my first language, so if you find something ridiculously incorrect in my grammar, just ignore it. _

"It's over now, the music of the night... past and future... all is over. Why not just stop and let them capture me? Why run like a wolf , pursued by whistling hunters and barking dogs? Would _she_ wish that? Would _she_ believe that I can be changed? How _she_ looked at me – as if searching for the flicker of goodness in the abyss of my soul. Gone, gone now, _she_ and music... No, they will not get me. To cage I will not go, not again."

He knew he could not run much longer. The underworld of the opera house was his domain, where every brick was familiar, yet outside – and now he was on the surface – he could not find his way with the same ease. Only the inherent agility and keen eyes gave him advantage over his pursuers. Yet this advantage was temporal - the gendarmes were catching up with him rapidly, their shouts and threats ringing in the chilly winter air. To the gain of both parties, no loiterers were walking on Parisian streets that night: the cold was merciless, so the commotion could not coax out even the most curious city-dwellers. A few, however, peeped out of windows and later swore they saw a figure in dark cape, moving with inhuman speed and grace; his face they could not see.

As he ran further, the streets grew narrower, featuring heaps of dirty snow and lamps casting dull meager light on rough pavement. The rows of tall and shabby houses formed a labyrinth which lacked any beauty, symmetry, or ingeniousness, but appeared to take pride in its ugliness. The caped figure turned into a nook of a street, where he immediately collapsed with somebody. Instantly he covered his face with the fold of his cloak. The effect of this collision was minimal for him, but the "somebody" fell on the ground and produced a shriek: "Monsieur, your are a bear! Where are you hurrying – to you mother-in-law's funeral?"

It was a girl – small, wry, and very indignant. Like a grasshopper, she sprang on her feet and in one leap was by his side, catching him by the sleeve. "Are you deaf, monsieur? I expect my apologies!"

Insolent meddling brat! What a pity he had no time to teach her manners. "Let go of me immediately, mademoiselle, and maybe then you'll be unharmed. I have unfinished business with the gentlemen yonder,"he stretched his hand in the direction of the distant shouts.

The fold of the cloak slid down, revealing to the girl his deformed face, which looked even more terrifying in the blurry light of the street lamp. A grimace of terror contorted her features. "Misericordia Domini,"panted the girl, loosening her grip. The Phantom – and it was he – twisted his lips in a smirk; he lingered to see his little attacker dart away in fear. This encounter would give her nightmares in years to come.

But she did something opposite – grasped his hand and whispered feverishly, "What have they done to you, monsieur? Oh, what have they done! Please, go now with me, I'll hide you from them, go to my lodging. It's here, just a few steps." She pointed at the porch of the house. Something was very odd. The shouts and whistles, however, were ringing louder, so the Phantom followed the girl, and the house swallowed them both. The girl, tense like a snake, constantly looking around, pulled him up a few flights of stairs until they appeared before a door, chipped and scratched. Hastily the girl opened it and beckoned her companion to step inside. So he did. Then the girl locked the door and collapsed on the floor, as if completely exhausted.

She sat, and he loomed over her. The room was dark, but no light was necessary for the one whose eyes were accustomed to darkness. The Phantom saw it quite distinctively: the furnishings were scarce, only a bed with a crucifix over it and a long table with two chairs. In the corner there was a stove, in a somewhat dangerous proximity to it – an armchair. The furniture probably saw three generations of owners before it ended in this poor room. On the table he noticed a heap of silk scraps and paper flowers – was it what the girl did for living?

"Monsieur, please, there are matches and a candle on the table." Turning his back towards her, he lit the candle in the heavy candelabra. The girl seemed to regain strength and approached, smiling faintly.

"Forgive me, monsieur, I am a bad hostess. On the other hand, I do not received guests all that often. Please, accommodate yourself." The Phantom sat on the chair and continued silently scrutinizing his little rescuer. Something was odd about her, but he could not quite grasp it.

Again, she smiled apologetically, "I was very scared, so scared I could not even move. My sisters always called me a scaredy cat."

"Why, mademoiselle, I think you are very brave – inviting a complete stranger, who is chased by police and whose appearance is so ... charming. So very brave you are, that your courage borders foolishness. Don't you wonder why all Parisian gendarmes are after this monster? Perhaps, because of some darks deeds that this creature of abyss committed. Hmm? Surely, your mother or auntie will be mad when they discover such a visitor side by side with their turtle dove?"

The girl shrugged under his heavy look, "I have neither mother nor aunt... Well, I do, but... it so happened... they are away from me now... In any case, nobody will be angry, I am my own mistress and do whatever I like. This is my home and you are welcome to stay. At least, until the police stops searching for you."

The Phantom smiled sardonically, "I don't think they will stop all that soon." "Oh, you won't believe how forgetful they can be," said the girl. "So do stay."

Again, it felt odd, like a dream. And not a happy dream or even a nightmare, but a heavy, absurd, exhausting dream that accompanies a malady. Was it this mad swirling night, or _her_ farewell, or the unreasonable venture outside of his lair? Maybe he would wake up tomorrow, and his angel would sing for him again and again, and music would blend their souls forever, the world without end... The girl kept chatting reassuringly, but he was submerged deep into his own thoughts and paid no attention.

"...And now, will monsieur let me apply some medicine to his face?" This remark brought him back to senses.

"What did you say?"

"I said, I don't really have proper medicine now, but my mother once said that if you mix lard with soot, it makes a perfect remedy for burns..."

"Burns?"

"Yes, that's what the gendarmes did to your face. Burned it, right? Or did they slash it, or..."But she could not finish the list of gendarmes' possible atrocities because the Phantom momentarily picked her by her shoulders, so that her face was on the same level as his, and growled,

"Foolish girl, how dare you even think that? Few people touched my face an lived to tell the tale... Gendarmes? Ha!... No, this" he gave the girl a shake "this... abomination was with me since birth. My mother fainted when the midwife showed her this monster – her son. A scrap of clothing was my first mask... Look at me!... What do you see?"

The girl struggled to loosen his grip, but her attempts were as effective as those of a mouse struggling to escape from a panther. Then a sudden courage inspired her and she looked directly into his eyes, dark with wrath, and pronounced coolly, "What do I see? A man whom I foolishly mistook for a gentleman. Now kindly put me down."

The Phantom was ready for screams and pleas, but not for this scornful remark. The girl spoke to him like a lady of the house would to a footman. What a nerve in such a sparrow! He put the girl down, rather roughly, and she did not run away from her attacker, but stood before him, still as a mannequin. This girl was a box of riddles. They stood for a few seconds, gazing at each other as if in surprise. The Phantom was the first to break the spell of silence, "I beg you pardon, mademoiselle, I lost control. I must leave at once."

"No, stay. Where will you go? The night is cold and lonely. In a night like this one wants to be at home, sitting by blazing fire and chatting a friend or family. Please, stay. I'm not angry."

"I have neither home nor family. My only friend I lost. I must go lest I hurt you again, unintentionally or willingly."

The girl looked at him with sadness. It was amazing how quickly her moods changed. She continued with even more persuasion, "But the police is looking for you. They will catch you if you venture out. Just stay tonight and leave tomorrow."

"You don't understand..." he began, but was interrupted by her. "I cannot let you go, I'll never forgive myself if I do," the strange girl said . "I promise I'll not bother you. Look how weary you are, monsieur. Just stay."

He should have left, but her pleading voice reminded him of Christine, begging her angel to reveal himself.

"All right, mademoiselle, I'll stay, if that's what you wish. But you are playing with fire."

"Thank you, I knew you would not refuse. You need to sleep now – you are so tired. Take off your cloak – I'll hang it over the chair." He reluctantly took off the cloak. Almost suddenly he felt that he was weary indeed, after all the events of the night, yet he made his best to hide the fatigue from the strange child.

"You may sleep in the bed, monsieur," offered the girl. The Phantom, to his great dismay, felt his face was getting hot, and he deeply regretted the absence of a mask. Perhaps, making paper flowers was not the only occupation of his hostess.

"But if I sleep in your bed," he started cautiously, "where will you sleep?"

"In the arm-chair," said the unabashed girl. "Don't you worry, I'll be comfortable. You are tired, so go sleep."Then she sat at the table, moved the candle closer, and started sewing, as if everything was perfectly normal.

The Phantom did not like her motherly tone, but he felt mortally tired, so he lay down in the bed, needless say, without undressing. It was strange – to be in bed at night, but it was even more strange to be in the bed of a woman whom he met ten minutes ago. Whose name he did not now. Yet soon he was asleep. Somewhere near dawn a strange sound woke him up. As the Phantom opened his eyes, he could see in the dusk a little kneeling figure: slightly trembling, the girl was muttering prayers under her breath. Her quiet "ora pro nobis" lulled him back to sleep. Then Cristine came to him, smiling seductively, "I returned, mon maitre." He asked in disbelief, "Is that really you, Cristine? You came back, you will not disappear like a wisp of fog?" She gave out a soft laugh and started singing, as sweetly as a Peri.


	2. Chapter 2

Genevieve watched a single tear roll down the stranger's cheek. She had been observing him for almost an hour, in search for a clue about his identity. The distorted side of his face was pressed against the pillow, and now he looked like an ordinary man. "Ordinary man! Now, nothing is common place about him!" Genevieve looked at the strangers face, trying to memorize every feature. How noble he looked, with his hair the color of raven' wind, his high forehead, his firm chin! The girl glanced at his hands – the stranger had long and graceful fingers, free from callouses of hard labor. Even sleeping, he appeared powerful and dangerous.

His age must have been somewhere around 30 or 50 – Genevieve was not good at guessing age. Again she thought that back in her hometown people looked much older than Parisians. Her mother, a merchant's wife, after 11 childbirths looked worse than old hags begging near Notre Dame, and the noble lady was not even forty! The thought of the hometown made the girl shrug, and she hastily turned her thoughts back to the mysterious stranger.

Who was he? Why was he wanted by police? And what about the woman whose name he was uttering in sleep? Thoughts were swirling in Genevieve's head like butterflies in a summer field, but she tried to bring them into order. The stranger was a gentleman, that's certain. He did not steal his fancy clothes, that's for sure – they fit him too well. Then what happened? Perhaps, this Christine, whom he was calling in sleep, was his wife. An unfaithful wife. He had caught her with a lover and slain her. Or her lover. Or both. He was certainly capable of the deed - Genevieve's shoulders were still sore from his crushing grip, and she only offered some ointment for his face.

His face! It looked as if a mad sculptor had cloven the man's face in two, leaving one side noble and inspiring, an epitome of masculinity, but unleashing his fury on the other side, scratching, chipping, mutilating it with his chisel. This deformity was the stranger's soft spot, and instead of carefully avoiding it, the girl trumped right on. "Oh, Genevieve, you lunatic, you tactless hen! Be grateful that he only gave you a shake – that's the least you deserve." A hot wave of shame swept over the girl. She knew all to well how it felt to be teased and harassed, and yesterday, though unintentionally, she herself was a harasser.

"I should not mention his face again. And I should not ask any questions. When he wakes up I will be friendly, and maybe he will forgive my rudeness. And maybe he will be in no hurry to leave," thought Genevieve.

"Teehee! You imp, you are in love like a cat!" came the mocking voice of Reason.

"No, I am not in love. I am just trying to be ...charitable... like a Christian should be," the girl argued but suddenly realized that all that time she was absentmindedly petting the stranger's cloak, like she would a kitten. Reason continued pitilessly, "That man is a gentleman. Had he been three times as disfigured as he is, you still would have no chances. You are plain, and clumsy, and a lunatic!"

"No, no!"

Anyone who chanced to look at Genevieve at the moment would not notice a single sign of her internal battle. She looked composed, her eyes transfixed on the floor, yet inside she was screaming.

"Why," said Reason, "there is only one thing the gentleman may want of you. Know what it is? You have to be prudent, or else your parents will never have you back!" . She looked again at the sleeping stranger, listened to his powerful breath.

"You know what to do, Genevieve. He told you last night that you were toying with flame. His element is fire, so you have to become ice, or else he will scorch you. When he wakes up, be polite but aloof, and don't ask questions."

The man stirred in sleep. Genevieve's heart gave a thump, but the stranger did not wake up. She looked around and thought that there was not a morsel of food in her flat. What kind of breakfast would she offer her noble guest? "Blessed Virgin, please, may he sleep until I'm back," she uttered a quick prayer, grabbed a basket, hastily put on a cape and bonnet, and slid out of the door. Then she dashed to the grocery on the corner. When she came in, the owner, M. Boden, was talking to a customer.

"And they kept me up all night..." He noticed the girl and turned to her, "Good morning, little Genevieve. Yesterday's bread, as usual?"

"No, M. Boden. I'd like some cheese, and butter, and a small jar of strawberry jam." She looked at the tray with freshly baked pastries. "And four croissants, please."

"My girl, what's the matter? You can actually buy something now! Did you get a big order? Or do you now have a rich suitor, ah?" M. Boden grinned, and the customer giggled in her sleeve, "Sure, men are just queuing to marry her." The girl looked down.

"Come on, Genevieve, I'm joking" the grocer spoke paternally, trying to soften his clumsy joke. "Here, let me wrap it for you. You need to eat more, or you will never grow. Goodness, my ten year old is taller than you! And look how pale you are. " Without uttering a word, Genevieve put the purchases in her basket and left the store. M. Boden shook his head – Genevive was a good girl, quiet, respectful, not messing with lads. What a pity she was mad.

Erik's sleep was disturbed by the sound of the closing door. He stood up. The girl had just left, and he was alone in her room, which in the daylight looked even more run down. Erik brushed the hair off his forehead – damnation, he was not wearing a mask! The floodgate of memory opened, and the events of the last night rushed into his head in a torrent, however hard he struggled to suppress them. Each time he closed is yes he saw Christine, as if her image was imprinted on the inner side of his eyelids. Her voice spoke in his head, "God give me courage to show you, you are not alone."

"But I am alone, Christine, I am!" Despair was upon him. Yesterday his angel gave him a taunting glimpse of paradise, but only for a moment. Now she was gone, and Erik felt even more bitter because he knew what happiness was like and knew that he would not regain it. Better never to have hope, than to lose it.

"Oh, Christine, I thought you were a child, a diligent little student of mine. When have you grown, my girl? Until last night, how could I not notice your strength? We reached the point of no return - how comes YOU won?"

Could she have stayed? When she ripped the mask of his face, what if she saw not the monstrosity, but a handsome face? Would she stay then? Erik shook his head. "It's in my soul that true distortion lies. I am a beast, inside as well as outside, and she is an angel. Like oil and vinegar, we cannot mix. Demons can covet paradise, longing for purity, but no one will ever quench their sorrow or wipe their tears." But what should he do now? First of all, leave the room until the girl comes back. He does not even know her name!

Erik moved to the window and lifted the curtain. He noticed a merry flock of children playing marbles right before the porch. This meant that he could not leave the house in a conventional manner, but he could try to get to the attic. Then Erik noticed his little acquaintance, walking towards the house, a basket in her hands. The children spotted her and smiled mischievously. Then an older boy, probably the gang-leader, leaped on his feet and pretended to play an invisible flute, while smaller brats rolled their eyes, stuck out their tongues, and started swinging wildly, as if dancing. As the girl passed them, the gang leader shouted an insult at her. The girl stopped, as if struck by lightning, abruptly turned towards the children, and quickly said something. The older boy grew red, and two little girls hastily crossed themselves. Erik turned from the window – his little hostess, plain and small as she was, managed to arouse his curiosity.

The first thing that Genevieve noticed on entering her room was the empty bed. Fear gripped her heart and immediately let go, for she noticed her guest standing by the window, the distorted side of his face turned away from her. She smiled and, after bidding him good morning, offered to join her for breakfast.

"I am sorry I did not have a chance to thank you for your hospitality, Mademoiselle..." he then gave the girl a quizzical look.

"Genevieve, just call me Genevieve. And how may I call you?"

"Different people call me different names," he said reluctantly.

"But monsieur, what is your Christian name? The name your mother called you?"

He winced at the last remark, or so it seemed to her.

"Erik."

Genevieve rolled the name on her tongue – it was a wonderful name. She repeated her invitation for breakfast.

"Thank you, Genevieve, but I must say no. I have to leave now," said Erik, without looking at her. When he saw her in the window, her lonesome figure stirred pity in his heart. But pity was a feeling, and he was to bury all feelings and desires and become cold as marble. Passions ruined him.

Genevieve felt tears gathering in the corners of her eyes, but she plucked up her courage and tried to sound convincingly. "You cannot leave in broad daylight, Erik. Too many people will see you. Besides, I spotted a gendarme near the grocery shop," she lied bravely.

Erik thought that perhaps the girl was right. He could stay until darkness, for he truly had nowhere to go now. The very thought of the Opera Populaire was detestable. Noticing his hesitation, Genevieve continued, "I knew you were a reasonable man, Erik. Shall we have breakfast now?" She started setting the table, smiling coyly to her guest.

As she busied herself with making breakfast, Erik had a chance to study her better. Genevieve was not pretty by any standards: she was so thin that a gust of wind would send her flying. She had a waist-long blond hair, dry and unruly. Her mouth was to big, her teeth to small and uneven, and her cheekbones too perky. Under her eyes lay dark shadows, making her look almost like a morphine addict, but the eyes themselves were rather attractive – large gray eyes with long fuzzy eyelashes. Yet there was something in her eyes, some evasive expression, that made Erik feel uneasy. These were the eyes of a person who saw a great cataclysm and spent all the life fighting with the memories.

"How old are you, Genevieve?" asked the Phantom, and cursed himself. From what he knew about women, few were happy to answer this question."I hope you are not offended, I am asking from the position of my age, which is at any rate greater than yours."

"I'm eighteen."

He could hardly believe it, for the girl looked no older than fourteen. But perhaps life of poverty suppressed her growth.

They had breakfast in silence. Genevieve sworn to herself not to ask her guest any questions, while the latter was submerged in brooding thoughts. After cleaning the table, Genevieve opened her work box, took a piece of white velvet, and proceeded with her needlework, hoping that Erik would speak first. His melodious voice was like a balm to her ears. Bending her head even lower, Genevieve struggled to hide her burning cheeks.

"Please, speak, my angel, for I dare not speak to you first. I must be distant, I must be calm, or I'll be ruined. Curse me or bless me, only speak. When you are gone, you voice will be my keepsake. Oh, have mercy on me, Lord, what am I doing? He did not touch me, yet I lost my innocence... I am ruined already. Oh, sweet torment!"

"Genevieve, what are you doing?" she heard his voice as if through fog.

"Don't you see, Erik? I am making a pretty purse for Mme. Lotre. As soon as I'm done sewing, I'll decorate it with beads and lace."

"My girl," her heart leaped at the sounds of his insinuating voice, "May I have a piece of your velvet?"

If he asked her for her heart, she would have given it gladly, but it was only velvet that he wanted. She quietly sighed.

"You may have it."

"And also scissors, thread, and a coal."

She laid the items before him. Erik picked a coil and lightly, without taking any measurements, traced the contours of a half-mask on the white fabric. He frowned, but nevertheless started slashing the velvet. Genevieve observed his brisk skillful movements with awe. Never in her wildest dreams could she think that a gentleman could work with needle and thread.

"I would never guess that you could sew, Erik. Do you want a thimble?"

The man glared at her, expecting to see subtle mockery in her face. All he saw was sincere admiration.

"No, thank you."

"I have never seen a gentleman sewing," repeated Genevieve.

A twisted smiled appeared on Erik's lips. "I am a sworn bachelor, mademoiselle, and I keep no servants. Hence I learned how to take care of myself." The needle in his long fingers moved with amazing speed, and in an instant the mask was ready. When Erik put it on, he felt confidence coming back. Hide your face, hide your tears, hide your passions. He laughed, and his laughter sounded like a growl. He was the Phantom again.

Genevieve did not know what to say. Erik's deformity did not really frighten her, for in her hometown she had seen worse faces – corroded with chicken-pox, polluted with leprosy, scarred in brawls, burnt and branded. Now, however, when the upper half of Erik's face was covered with a white velvet mask, the girl felt as a high wall rose between her and her guest. All over sudden he looked not only powerful but terrifying, not only sharp but cruel. He looked unpredictable. He looked inhuman.

"I...I think you mask looks... very nice," Genevieve started in a trembling voice.

And then she heard a loud knock at the door. And once more.

"Open in the name of the law," the impatient voice came. In dismay, Genevieve looked at Erik, who stepped into the corner and signaled her to open the door.

From his corner, the Phantom could not see the gendarmes, only hear their voices. There were two of them, an old and a young one. From the commotion Erik understood that the "hounds" were accompanied by the host of Genevieve's neighbors, mostly women and children. He heard Genevieve's quivering voice,

"Good afternoon, monsieur inspector. How may I be at your service?"

"Afternoon," barked the old gendarme. The young one said, "We are looking for a dangerous criminal, who may be hiding somewhere around. Taller than six feet, athletic composure, dark hair. And he has the most hideous deformed face one can think of. You cannot mistake him for anyone else. Have you seen this man, mademoiselle?"

Genevieve answered with unexpected firmness, "Yes, monsieur inspector, I have seen this man."  
"You did?"

"Yes."

"Do you know where he is now?"

"Yes."

"Where?"

"He is here."


End file.
